#dont deprive the universe of U

[athena5898]

There is a good CJ The X video that covers this.

btw with art when people say 'youve got to do it scared' 'youve got to draw bad' 'youre not gonna know how to do it until you do it' it sounds like bullshit but its true. 90% of art is just getting over the fear that it's not going to be good enough to deserve to be made in the first place. but you're here. you're alive and, with no need to justify that, you're going to make art. it's just part of being alive. you'll spend so long worrying you aren't doing it good enough that you'll look back and realized you didn't live a single day of it.

[marsneedstherapy]

yall I know how much we talk abt phoebe and silas now days, but I must admiT rosalind and orion r still my favorite secret shanghai couple.... 🤧😁

[tiredsmashbros]

SMG34: LIPBITE COMIC WIP UPDATE

oh boy... i know a bunch of folks are hyped for this comic... and boy oh boy are ya'll's prayers going to be heard... kind of... butt for the celebration milestone, and granted majority are from this comic, i thought it was best to give EVERYTHING that i have currently.

starting off STRONG with what you freaks most want: the completed pages. andddd yep that's it that all that i have done LMAO. i've been fixated on my own smg4 oc: tsb, and during the end of my summer was unfortunately fucked over by some personal issues that fortunately got resolved last minute good grief the anxiety prevented me from drawing the gays sigh... aNYWAYS LINEART WIPS!!!!

here are linearts i have completed / in the progress of!! want to aim like i did in the past by finishing up lineart first, and then speed through with color + minor rendering. the reason i have a few colored is to test out what it would look polished and my god... i have improved A LOT. THESE GAY PEOPLE GIVE POWER I AM NOT KIDDING BELIEVE ME IM NOT CRAY- anyways onto wip pages!

jumpscare: tsb stickman sketches. oh yeah. this is how i sketch and i blame sensei eiichiro oda /j. and in case anyone is unable to understand it {i don't blame u LMAO}, smg4 wakes up from the dream and is startled to see mario by his bed. they have a short convo before mario leaves, and we get a job to smg4 in the bathroom trying to put up a brave face. until the moment he leaves he's stunned due to seeing smg3 at his front door. will i elaborate more on specifics or unwritten dialogue? NOPE! gotta keep secrets to make it even more enjoyable at the end!!

currently at 13 sketched pages total, but this is probably gonna be reaching towards 20-ish pages, surpassing part two, but it will depend on how i come up with how to end it. additionally to confirm there will be a PART FOUR / chapter 3, to end this story. my goal is to have it done before i finish my senior year, or at least during the summer after i graduate bc good lord who knows whats gonna happen.

and lastly, before i end this crazy update, SCRAPPED PAGESSS!!!!!

CONTENT WARNING : NSFW SKETCHES !!!! PLEASE LOOK AWAY IF YOU ARE A MINOR OR DON'T LIKE THIS TYPE OF STUFF!!!

oh boy... dont draw comics while sleep-deprived at 6am... idek what i was even aiming with this ngl other than just for fun, but i scrapped it due to not being what i had in mind for the story. if it doesn't serve a purpose or narrative, its bye bye YEAH BYE BYE THIS IS THE CLOSEST NSFW UR GONNA GET FROM ME HAHAHAHAHA- i say that despite writing a nsfw jojo wattpad smh im only confident doing it in words good lord. btw not watermarking these bc i gen don't care since they're legit scrapped {left top part was kept and completed} so idk what to do with these. im just throwing it and walkin away

now to end with this update, i can hear your question, "when will this be done?" and to answer that question: i'm not entirely sure due to my heavy focus on my smg4 oc: tsb, but my best chance is postponing my oc lore a bit and complete this before november UOIYGJDSIUHJKDWSXYUGHJKCS but we shall have too see...

if you want to join the ping list comment on this post LMAO [click]

ignore below if you're not from the tsb birthday partydddjdhdhdjd

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...

thurs: smg34 is canon in the tsb universe / au. though most of their encounters are platonic or best-friendy-way, they eventually express their feelings to one another and start dating 3/4’s way of the tsb storyline arc. tsb is a supporter of his friend's relationship and admires and takes inspiration from their relationship heavily to input his future love life. yearning to be in a similar position... to learn what is to really love someone... or what it's truly like to be loved...

[nausicaaandhermouth]

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived. 

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

[reyislikesotired]

i might finish this later cause i was also gonna add jason, damian, duke, and MAYBE cass but here's my addition to the long list of orphans from other universes that bruce has to hold back from adopting

*idk where this would be set but at least for hunter, this is BEFORE kings tide*

hunter, after explaining a bit of where he came from and his role in the emperor's cover: my uncle... is not a merciful man.

dick, leaning to bruce to whisper: if u dont adopt him, i will

tim, sleep deprived and already between cases: *has already a stack of information on phillip wittebane and is working on getting hunter legal papers and prepping the adoption ones*

jason and damian, after loading up and sharpening their weapons: excuse us, we have an appointment/LETS GO KICK SOME WHITE SUPREMACIST ASS

duke, in gear cause he just got back from patrol: *sees hunter* huh, new brother?

cass, following jason and damian out the door: new brother!

steph and alfred: *making bets as to when hunter will be officially adopted*

[strongheartneteyam]

💌 A messy open letter/life update to my moots, readers and followers (?)

MY LOVES MY ANGELS HI!!!

IM SO SORRY FOR NEGLECTING Y'ALL FOR SO LONG my kitten is just now healed enough (not fully healed yet. she still has sutures) for me to be able to let her walk around the room and play by herself without being too dangerous for her health and I FINALLY was able to sleep more these last 4 days (I didn't talk to ANY of my friends for 3 days bc all I could do was sleep - even during the day, like, a lot - watch movies n read a bit (books, not fanfiction)/study neuroscience and anatomy a bit) so, now, I'm only like 70% recovered from so much sleep deprivation (being an amateur nurse for a spayed kitten and also doing house chores, mostly by yourself, ain't easy) and I've been logging in here for like only 30 minutes up to a maximum of like 1 hour or so, and not even everyday, just editing some stuff on my posted fanfiction/checking my notifications, messages, asks and OMG you guys are AMAZING!!! So much love that I'm receiving, from moots, readers, followers or even people who I don't think follow me but they support my works somehow, even after me being gone for this long while... IM SO THANKFUL AND MOVED!!! I love this fandom SO MUCH! I have no words!! I've been in many fandoms in my life and the Avatar one is by far the most supportive, peaceful - to a certain extent - and full of good energy and love! I PROMISE I will get to answer y'all soon enough!

And about the talk that's been going on about the fandom dying, DONT U WORRY MY BABIES, MOMMA VICTÓRIA AINT GOING NOWHERE! Speaking for me, at least, this tall blue aliens obsession is NOT something temporary! I'll be writing my lil stories for y'all forever, if I'm able to (lol) 🤍 I've loved Avatar since the first time I watched the 2009 movie, back when it was released and I was a child, and now that I'm a grown woman in her 20s, I still feel such a big connection to this fictional universe, in a literal spiritual level. I was a pagan/had a witchy/nature based spirituality for years of my life, tho I'm not pagan anymore, since I slowly realized I never truly believed in the pagan gods and magick, but, instead, I just see God in nature and see it as sacred and something that should be respected and taken care of, instead of destroyed. I also have indigenous heritage from my great grandmother, love my indigenous culture, live in a small town, next to the countryside, always felt crazily connected to nature and the Universe and been deeply fascinated by space, aliens, sci-fi, fantasy, always been called a "hippie" by people, either to tease me playfully or to try to make me feel bad for being a bit too much like Kiri Sully (istg me and Kiri are one and the same) so, this fandom serves me JUST RIGHT 😅🫀✨🌱👽💕 I'm here to stay and I WILL help keep this wonderful fandom alive!!! 💖

Anyways... I feel like I already "talked" way too much lol I'm wordy, sorry 🥲 but that's one of the reasons I can write well, so... it's got its bad and its good side ahaha

Speaking of writing, I have like 6 to 7 chapters of Realize where you belong saved (only need to edit and fill in some gaps) bc, even in the middle of so much physical and mental working, I'VE BEEN SO BLESSED with inspiration and been able to write A LOT lately, in the wee free time I've been having, so... if you're reading this fanfiction, I might be updating it later today or tomorrow!

Hope you're all doing good and taking care of yourselves! I've been trying to! I LOVE Y'ALL TO THE MOON AND BACK 💘

With love, your messy and a bit crazy but honest and caring fanfiction writer,

Victória ♡

[imustbenuts]

With regards to Rosado, I was under the impression he's likely a trans man. Would you say this is accurate?

my sleep deprived ass here probably wont do a good job of answering so im gonna give u a few possible jumbled answers, mengo

1. rosado is rosado.

by which i mean, rosado absolutely fucks with gender and doesnt care about others' gender definition and criteria. only rosado, the fictional character, can answer this question. i cannot, and i dont think anyone but the writers can definitely say so either.

2. rosado is a symbol of the state of 2023's trans rights in japan

this means rosado is possibly a trans woman who has not transitioned due to the incredibly shit laws of robbing a person of their human rights in real life. he has found his peace, his pace and vibes and really doesnt care about laws and all that. basically ungovernable.

perhaps some HRT is possible. ive heard of people being able to get access to them through the private route over there but obviously its not exactly accessible to everyone.

plus there is a small bias for male okama stereotypes and less trans men in jp media at least from the stuff ive consumed over the past 15 years. so if you ask me thats what i lean towards on instinct.

3. "rosado" is reflective of the reader

ill say this: when it comes to fictional characters who aren't written with a clear, definite label of what they are from an official source, people are free to interpret however they want.

(bridget from guilty gear is the COMPLETE opposite of this with a BIG trans girl confirmation stamped by the word of god)

personally, i wont get on and dont want to get on ppls case of how they really want to interpret rosado. at the end of the day, rosado shuns gender norms in the japanese culture context hard and with a big confident happy middle finger.

and no one in-universe has any problem with that

so is rosado a trans man? sure, why not. its as accurate as the reader makes it to be. just be chill towards others who interpret him differently, i think.

[ao3feed-birdflash]

the sound of a piano on the shore

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/i06EflT

by boreasofthesun (augustzephyr)

Dick Grayson gets hit with a magical spell and is cursed to be hidden away in his own mind and in order to retrieve their comrade, the heroes much reach into the unconscious acrobat's mindscape in order to draw said unconscious acrobat back to consciousness. Too bad they didn't expect to meet a version of him that had no idea who they were.

Bruce and Dick prepare to have a difficult conversation.

Words: 2885, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Young Justice (Cartoon), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Zatanna Zatara, M'gann M'orzz, Mentioned Kaldur - Character, mentioned Kon-El | Conner Kent - Character, Mentioned Roy Harper - Character, and his clones!, Mentioned Wally West, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Alfred Pennyworth, Damian Wayne, mentioned Stephanie Brown - Character, mentioned Cassandra Cain - Character, Barbara Gordon

Relationships: implied Dick Grayson/Wally West, Batfamily Members & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & M'gann Mo'rzz, Dick Grayson & Clark Kent, Past Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson (HINTED)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, facing your inner child and realising u need to heal the little shit, Fairy Tale Curses, Witch Curses, Magic, that shit is implied, Dick Grayson-centric, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Gets a Hug, Dick Grayson Needs Therapy, Dick Grayson Gets a Break, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Good Sibling Stephanie Brown, Good Sibling Cassandra Cain, Good Sibling Tim Drake, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, its only implied, dont hate him ok he just doesnt know how to face the issue here, Age Regression/De-Aging, De-Aged Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, Dick Grayson Has Issues, all of the batfam do tbh, not entire batfam is here btw!, Dick Grayson Has Eldest Daughter Syndrome, Author Is Sleep Deprived, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, no beta we die like batman's robins

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/i06EflT

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

the sound of a piano on the shore

by boreasofthesun (augustzephyr)

Dick Grayson gets hit with a magical spell and is cursed to be hidden away in his own mind and in order to retrieve their comrade, the heroes much reach into the unconscious acrobat's mindscape in order to draw said unconscious acrobat back to consciousness. Too bad they didn't expect to meet a version of him that had no idea who they were.

Bruce and Dick prepare to have a difficult conversation.

Words: 2885, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Young Justice (Cartoon), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Zatanna Zatara, M'gann M'orzz, Mentioned Kaldur - Character, mentioned Kon-El | Conner Kent - Character, Mentioned Roy Harper - Character, and his clones!, Mentioned Wally West, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Alfred Pennyworth, Damian Wayne, mentioned Stephanie Brown - Character, mentioned Cassandra Cain - Character, Barbara Gordon

Relationships: implied Dick Grayson/Wally West, Batfamily Members & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & M'gann Mo'rzz, Dick Grayson & Clark Kent, Past Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson (HINTED)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, facing your inner child and realising u need to heal the little shit, Fairy Tale Curses, Witch Curses, Magic, that shit is implied, Dick Grayson-centric, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Gets a Hug, Dick Grayson Needs Therapy, Dick Grayson Gets a Break, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Good Sibling Stephanie Brown, Good Sibling Cassandra Cain, Good Sibling Tim Drake, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, its only implied, dont hate him ok he just doesnt know how to face the issue here, Age Regression/De-Aging, De-Aged Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, Dick Grayson Has Issues, all of the batfam do tbh, not entire batfam is here btw!, Dick Grayson Has Eldest Daughter Syndrome, Author Is Sleep Deprived, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, no beta we die like batman's robins

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/46766413

[jaywhere]

im about to drop so much unnecessary information but i think i need to like write this down and get it out of my system bc i dont think ive ever actually like put it on paper all in one place but

i went to graduate school in like 2019 i already knew a bunch of the profs in the program and id promised myself that if i got into this program specifically i would bite the bullet and transition bc it was going to be the cheapest option so id actually have the money and i would have at least some social support bc id be close to home and like. yadda yadda transitioning is bad grad school is toxic you end up spending like 8-12 hours a day with 30 random high achieving people and its Bad, trans stuff was not the only thing that everyone was bad about.

i have been trying very hard recently to find like joy in being a man and loving myself and all that extremely gay shit but back then i was this like tightly wound ball of anxiety and insecurity and transitioning in that environment while not knowing a single other trans person irl was kind of unhinged of me and i dont mean to sound like an asshole but i did graduate with a 4.0 and im good at my fucking job now despite all that shit and i am extremely brave and awesome for that. and i could spend a lot of time talking about how all of that fucking psychologically fucked me up but i am here today to talk about one specific person who at the time i made a lot of excuses for but looking back on it im. i just need to write it out lmfao.

so i went to grad school not for fun academic reasons but bc my current profession is like one of those things where u gotta have a special license and training and all that jazz, not gonna doxx myself but u get it. one of the pieces of that is u have to get a certain number (like Many Hundreds) of direct hours practicing how to do this job, usually on site at the university for the first year and then externally as a graduate intern at some kind of real world job site. some programs make you find your own internships but mine was one where we were directly assigned -- a thing my anxious undiagnosed adhd ass was specifically looking for lol -- and there was one lady who was in charge of finding those placements and picking out which student goes where. she also had minimal teaching responsibilities where we had a 1-hour long lecture with her once a week and it was extremely pointless everything else im about to say aside this lady was either sleep deprived all the time or really just not very smart

so you know me, baby trans, publicly transitioning in this toxic environment, constant microaggressions from my peers -- dear lord one time this lady in her 40s with like kids who used to be in the military made me sit with her in grad work room and explain to her what rights exactly i think i dont have as a trans person a lady from the fucking MILITARY who was enlisted in the fucking DONT ASK DONT TELL ERA and then i just had to move on and sit there for like three hours studying -- christ!!! anyways it was not great but this particular professor would literally constantly misgender me in her class, like to the fucking point where i had other students point it out like "why does she do that like youre not even raising your hand" and it became this whole thing where i was like. fuck do i need to sit in the back and even though my adhd ass really needs to be in the front do i need to just start loudly interrupting her so she feels as embarrassed as i do or am i gonna get in trouble for that can i ask other students to help me out JOKES ON YOU i tried that and it did not fucking work for like 8 different reasons

so i eventually just started trying to interrupt her and tbh it made her do it more frequently and draw even more attention to myself and i honestly would have just started skipping the class if it wouldnt have flunked me and you know how theres that whole thing they do in academia (other minority postbach homies will understand) where theyre like "well you say this thing is due to [minority status] but you didnt clearly communicate to us your needs why are you only telling us now" and its like i dont fucking know what about any of this situation (massive power difference between me and a prof, ability of prof to literally end my career before it starts, ability to make my life so miserable i get depressed and completely stop functioning only to say im not "cut out" for your highly selective program) makes academics think anybody is gonna feel okay communicating openly and honestly with them. so i never fucking complained like a chump just jay out here living in literal hell all the time always

and then she gives us these. god awful fucking case study type presentations. they are based on real people, one of them is trans. i wasnt assigned to the group that had that case but i got this awful feeling about it so i read through it and the whole thing was so fucking awful, like calling this poor trans woman's name a pseudonym bc its not her birth name, giving really inappropriate details about like gential surgeries which were really not relevant, super outdated language like we're just throwing the word transsexual around and defining "passing" wrong, i'm pretty sure misgendering this poor lady just to be like "well JUST to be CLEAR she (he) is really a MAN"

and like setting aside how awful that made me feel because, you know. looking back on it that's what literally everyone around me was thinking about me all thrle time. i had this whole conversation with myself where i was like. i have not complained i dont want to rock the boat i have approached literally every interaction ive had here trying to be a fucking model minority and it is straight up killing me a little. but i cannot let my classmates think this is an acceptable way to talk about trans people. shit that happens to me is my choice, shit that impacts others is not.

so i made an office hours appt with this lady. there was no fucking way to casually talk to her so it was like formal appt a week in advance felt like i was gonna throw up for days and i walk in psyching myself up to be so nice and helpful and understanding i just want to learn this shit and get my fucking degree. i explain so nicely like hey this maybe isnt the best. i wouldnt feel good if someone talked about me this way. i know it must be hard to find resources about trans people. we're so niche. id be happy to help you find another resource. we could maybe even salvage this one, or we could use it as-is and also talk about why all these things are bad. i dont want to take away everyones opportunity to learn about trans people, its so valuable and important, i just want it to he good info. i was so fucking -- i do not think i could have behaved better

and anyways here are some things this lady said to me during this meeting: oh yeah i thought when you made this appt it might be about this. she misgendered me like three fucking times -- how the hell do you even do that in a 1-1 conversation??? -- and acted like she didnt notice every. fucking. time. she did it. lady had the gall to like brag??? complain???? to me about how she ignores the emails she gets from turning point usa like WOW THAT MUST BE SO FUCKING HARD FOR YOU...ignoring emails...dear god, the moxie! (foreshadowing) and then admits that she knew the resource might have been shitty when she assigned it but felt assured that i would come to her and let her know if it was bad. which to this day makes me so fucking angry i spent so many hours freaking out about that meeting NOT FUCKING STUDYING -- and the whole fucking program was so vocal about racial/ethnic diversity and disability she would have immediately realized how inappropriate that sentiment is if it had been about NEARLY ANY OTHER MINORITY GROUP!!! and then she fucking is like "well ill just scrap it and we wont talk about trans people at all" and i kept pushing like hey no, hey no, please dont do that, dont let all these people graduate without having to have this conversation just once. and she was like eh and i OFFERRED to find someone to try and come give a fucking training (that didnt involve a fucking privledge walk and extensive discussion of the word womyn god i hate universities so much!!!!!!) and she was like uhh maybe and i immediately fucking went and found some folks to do it ANYWAYS bc i was struggling so much

and then covid hit like two weeks later and none of that mattered anyways!

i then lost all of my opportunities to get hours on campus (while other folks were able to continue virtually). it was entirely random but it was extremely shitty considering id gotten fewer hours in the fall bc the program had just relocated and there were all of these resource issues. i was meant to be included in an intensive project over the summer where i'd get a ton of hours because of the focus area i'd chosen, but i ended up getting less than half the hours that had been projected bc we had to do it virtually. so i ended out my first year of grad school with something like 85 hours out of 400. i wasnt in close contact with all my classmates but as far as i could tell i was definitely on the lower end in my cohort.

the semester starts in like august and this lady does not give me an internship placement until late october. i am literally the last person to be placed along with my classmate who shared the internship site with me.

in addition, the location and setting in which i am placed. i live in a major city in texas -- not awesome but i do not feel actively unsafe out in the world and there are visibly trans people Around. she assigned me to the kind of location where pulling into the wrong driveway as a visibly queer or nonwhite person can get you shot. and its a setting for trans people that is, i would say, at significantly higher risk of getting you fired or written about in fox news.

its august. i have been on t for about a year, but i hadnt had top surgery yet. and im likr 5'1 and kinda chubby. i have just started to reliably pass but its very context dependent and i have to put a Lot of work in.

this lady hasnt seen me since february. no one from the program has. she straight up does not think i pass. as she made abundantly clear to me.

not once did she ever try to contact me to let me know who of the people id be working with knew i was trans, give me any advice on how to approach the situation, or offer me literally any kind of support.

i have thought about this a lot over the years, because at the end of the day nothing ended up happening. i spent like an hour and a half every day driving to this internship fucking STRAPPED in my binder so i ended up wearing it for like at least 10 hours a day for months. i had to show my id to the front desk staff every time i went in and they would print me out a sticker i was supposed to wear with my deadname and my picture from my license where i was very clearly a woman. id have to wear just long enough to leave the office and immeditely strip it off in the hallway and discreetly throw it away before my supervisor saw, because i quickly INFERED that my supervisors did not know i was trans. the front office ladies would whisper about me every day. i was literally constantly on edge worrying when she shoe was gonna drop and my supervisors or the site admin or a client would find out and i'd get kicked out of the internship.

and this lady had spent so long yelling at us about how she cannot guarantee that youll graduate on time if you turn down an internship and you go on the bottom of the list for a new placement if you get kicked out and if you have to stay to get more hours you have to pay for a whole other semester of hours. i was already behind bc of covid.

i want to make it clear that in hindsight i understand that this was discrimination, quite obviously actually. at best it was straught negligence and at worst outright retaliation. at the time i really thought about complaining to the director or making a title ix complaint but i knew they were just going to blame it on covid. and if i went through and made a complaint and they completely agreed and removed me from the site, covid would be a great excuse to not give me another placement right anyway so either way i was just. boned.

my next placement was a lot safer thankfully but it was at the exact same setting as before. which, you know, not the best setting for trans people and the way this job works out, if you don't get practice hours in a specific setting its really hard to make the shift after graduation. i ended up getting a job at this place after actually which is great but its like. i got shut out of this whole area of my field. and that is NOT typical, even with covid most of the people in the class got more varied placements than i did. like ive told people in my field about getting two of the same type of job site and they were like "wait you can do that and graduate" and like a ton of people dont even WANT to have varied placements bc they already know exactly where they want to working im sobbing. like ive been trying to get into the one area of my field where we work with trans people and its so hard bc i just dont have any of these foundational experiences i need for that!!!

and now i am. screaming im screaming no im moving out of state bc we are getting to the point where if i stay here and things get any worse im going to be able to get charged with a sex crime for pissing at my place of employment and lose my fucking license or just have to explain it to every fucking landlord and licensing board for the rest of my life forever and like. just like the placement, is it likely to happen? probably not. but i dont deserve to live in the fear of losing my livelihood every day!!

so im in the process of leaving the damn state bc its not fucking safe for me. and the state im moving to needs this fucking paper filled out by my graduate program saying im competent to do this damn job and i did all the hours which is so fucking stupid bc they GRADUATED ME with a fucking 4.0!! and i have emailed this lady twice trying to get her to fill out the damn paper and she has not responded

im just like. so tired. i thought so hard about filing a complaint with the chair or title ix. i didnt, because i didnt wanna "burn the bridge" or whatever and i wasnt gonna win anyways. like i knew it would just be me having to relive all that shit and getting told i didnt advocate for myself well enough and its actually my fault AND I WAS PROBABLY RIGHT lets be real but i am like. regretting not doing that bc then at least there would be a paper trail.

i had like a whole fucking freak out today realizing that this lady 100% has the power to put me through that exact same awful insidious kind of discrimination that's so hard to meaningfully prove and its making me feel out of control. i know im putting the cart before the horse it is just like. its genuinely hard to describe how awful and dehumanizing everything was during that time in my life. i pretty much stopped writing after that first placement and i fucking always had ignorant fucking assholes talking shit to me in my dms and ao3 comments, trans people picking fights with me over fanfiction and fucking say shit like "no trans person would ever say xyz" and "hes a disappointment as a trans person" and "i just dont think his trans fic is good representation" in public, zero fucking apology, i got on antidepressants for the first and only time in my life. and i was in a fucking emotionally abusive relationship! that shit broke my fucking brain!!

i am doing better now not the same guy anymore i have joy sometimes and i am functioning better than i literally ever thought possible and i am going to move so i can have a life.

but also even though it feels very bad like im talking every time i think about this my chest gets all tight like im gonna have a panic attack and it has been SO LONG since i felt that way, i am going to send the emails and and call the front desk and email the department chair and fucking drive up there and bother the shit out of her until she does it. and like hey maybe she fucking wont! but if she gives me a hard time. it will cause me significant professional consequences and little if any professional gain but like fuck if i deserved any of that!!! its been so many years and i keep talking down to myself like it wasnt that big of a deal im just being self-centered it was probably a coincidence youre blowing things out of proportion bc thats how all my cis classmates talked about it but like i WASNT. i wasnt, i was not being dramatic or sensitive or whatever. i was not safe and i had basically no power in that situation and it was messed up. i finished my hours fucking three days before the deadline! three days from having to pay like $3k more than all my classmates and cancel my fucking top surgery if i wanted to graduate!! lady fundamentally changed the course of my career for no motherfucking reason!!!!

all that to say if she gives me a hard time i am going to file a discrimination complaint against her national certification it takes like a year and there's like 0% chance i'll like "win" in arbitration or whatever regardless of whether or not she signs the stupid fucking paper. ill either have to pay like $3k more go to back to school or pay like $1k to pull some morally dubious license and certification nonsense or try to transition to another setting if she doesnt. but like fuck her and every academic like her who thinks they can get away with that kinda shit without any consequences

NOT TO BE DRAMATIC BUT I YHIMK GRAD SCHOOL GAVE ME TRAUMA ACTUALLY

[vensleep]

I’m very sad, give me Nathaniel please

[cadaverousdecay]

leaf, dear, i’m from a country that doesn’t have starbucks, i also happen to be quite deprived of motivation and my room is sure as hell a big mess.

what do u, a frappe expert, think? will the power of caramel frappe reach me, just a simple girl stuck in a conservative country, will it save me? will it’s strength and glory be, oh so kind to look over to my side of the universe and nod, knowingly and wisely, will it give me the time of day or should i just give up on that already and try to make it myself in a half-broken blender

hello dear mai,

i actually dont go to starbucks, as starbucks scares me with their too many options and unknowns. the caramel frappe in question was of mcdonalds and to be honest i dont even get frappes that often just every once in awhile as a little treat and boost. monsters work just as well for me lol

as for the messy room and lack of motivation ive been there and am there right now. i look out upon the sea of clothes and books and other various items and scarcely see any floor these days.

but if i do happen to have any sway over the power of the caramel frappe i am sending its energies your way, may you acquire the strength to clean your room and any other task you need fulfilled. good luck.

anyway if you want to make yourself a caramel frappe and have the means to do so i say go for it! and i hope it helps <3

[thefreshchannel]

as a td veteran what are the top ten worst takes td you’ve ever heard doesn’t have to be just on here

Top ten worst td takes that i can remember at the top of my head from over the years (some will be the same but. I’m rlly sleep deprived sgshdh)

- scarlett and harold being related

- dave and noah being related

- heather and emma/kitty being related

- liking mike makes you ableist (guilty of having this take)

- not liking mike makes you ableist

- not liking dave means u dont rlly care about mentally ill ppl

- boyfriend kisser isnt a masterpiece

- courtney is a bad character because she has dated too many dudes

- nowen is bad bc owen is gross *insert fatphobic post abt owen* but dunnoah is good bc daddy duncan 😍

- noah is related to connie steven universe

[angelxxreaper]

YOU?????? DONT JUST GET OVER BEING ISOLATED FOR 500 YEARS??????

THAT IS CALLED SOCIAL ISOLATION.

"Chronically lonely people have higher blood pressure, are more vulnerable to infection, and are also more likely to develop Alzheimer’s disease and dementia. Loneliness also interferes with a whole range of everyday functioning, such as sleep patterns, attention and logical and verbal reasoning. The mechanisms behind these effects are still unclear, though what is known is that social isolation unleashes an extreme immune response – a cascade of stress hormones and inflammation. This may have been appropriate in our early ancestors, when being isolated from the group carried big physical risks, but for us the outcome is mostly harmful.

Yet some of the most profound effects of loneliness are on the mind. For starters, isolation messes with our sense of time. One of the strangest effects is the ‘time-shifting’ reported by those who have spent long periods living underground without daylight. In 1961, French geologist Michel Siffre led a two-week expedition to study an underground glacier beneath the French Alps and ended up staying two months, fascinated by how the darkness affected human biology. He decided to abandon his watch and “live like an animal”. While conducting tests with his team on the surface, they discovered it took him five minutes to count to what he thought was 120 seconds."

"The most extensive took place at McGill University Medical Center in Montreal, led by the psychologist Donald Hebb. The McGill researchers invited paid volunteers – mainly college students – to spend days or weeks by themselves in sound-proof cubicles, deprived of meaningful human contact. Their aim was to reduce perceptual stimulation to a minimum, to see how their subjects would behave when almost nothing was happening. They minimised what they could feel, see, hear and touch, fitting them with translucent visors, cotton gloves and cardboard cuffs extending beyond the fingertips. As Scientific American magazine reported at the time, they had them lie on U-shaped foam pillows to restrict noise, and set up a continuous hum of air-conditioning units to mask small sounds.

After only a few hours, the students became acutely restless. They started to crave stimulation, talking, singing or reciting poetry to themselves to break the monotony. Later, many of them became anxious or highly emotional. Their mental performance suffered too, struggling with arithmetic and word association tests.

But the most alarming effects were the hallucinations. They would start with points of light, lines or shapes, eventually evolving into bizarre scenes, such as squirrels marching with sacks over their shoulders or processions of eyeglasses filing down a street. They had no control over what they saw: one man saw only dogs; another, babies.

Some of them experienced sound hallucinations as well: a music box or a choir, for instance. Others imagined sensations of touch: one man had the sense he had been hit in the arm by pellets fired from guns. Another, reaching out to touch a doorknob, felt an electric shock.

When they emerged from the experiment they found it hard to shake this altered sense of reality, convinced that the whole room was in motion, or that objects were constantly changing shape and size."

think about that for a fucking second. i am begging you to understand that you literally were in isolation for 500 years. did you see how dream was when he came out of prison? he was in isolation for just six months. SIX MONTHS.

i'm elaborating more in another message, because i'm going to pick apart your last response. ^_^

Well yeah, we all know that I'm a bit fucked with time lmao

I can lose 3 hours just standing there stirring cookie dough mix if I'm not actively talking to someone or have anyone to keep me grounded. I don't really think that's dementia as much as it is just being time blind in general. Techno and Wil are just getting more accurate in telling time with their age.

I've spent a while outside of isolation, it's okay. And Dream's a little shit, it's different.

[ao3gingerswag]

Alsjsjsjs I’m sleep deprived so here’s a bunch of random thoughts about your universe:

Sam loves running up to Dean and telling him about his new book, and Dean always listens to what he says. At first, San won’t do it around Cas, but over time, he starts telling Dean things when Cas is there, and when he really starts to trust him, he starts telling Cas about business ideas

The first time Dean giggles, Cas gets this dumb lovestruck expression that Sam teases him about for hours

Cas calls Dean things like “beautiful” “radiant” and “gorgeous” while Dean calls Cas “kind” “sweet” and “angel” and both of them blush when they’re called their respective things

When they’re in the market, Cas, Sam, and Dean all hold hands (because they’re FAMILY [sorry I’m emotional over these sweethearts])

Whenever Cas puts a hand on Dean’s cheek, Dean leans into his palm and whispers “Hi angel” (cue blushing Caa)

Again, mistakes are my own! Thank you so much for creating this universe; it’s extremely fascinating and I love thinking about the character dynamics!

Hugs!!!!!!

ahhh yesssss these r so good!!! sammy infodumping is so my shit. sam at first infodumping at only dean all the time and rambling and rambling but very pointedly stopping all of a sudden when cas comes in. and then eventually hes like. harumph. ok fine i GUESS u can be in the room while i talk to dean about all the crap i read but i am NOT talking to you, im talking to HIM. >:( but then of course over time hes like CAS CAS CAS GUESS WHAT GUESS WHAT GUESS WHAT <3 <3 <3

the first time dean giggles, cas stares at him with the biggest heart eyes. the first time dean actually laughs, like really laughs big and loud and totally unselfconscious/unafraid. cas gets so emotional he cries a little.

They DO hold hands cfvhgbjkn they walk thru the market like kindergarten classes walk thru a museum, holding hands in those stupid linked chains so they dont get separated!!!

they 100% call each other sweet little pet names and i love dean's here!! i gotta be honest tho i think cas would kinda avoid using pet names that reference dean's physical appearance, bc, u know, trauma and not wanting dean to feel like thats what makes him valuable. not that he never tells dean he's beautiful, he def does, but in terms of pet names i see cas being more of a "sweetheart" and "my dear" kinda guy ;~; <3 <3 <3

xrtcfyvghjbknlm "Hi angle" edtfygujkmdxcfghvbjnk!!!!!!!! after they get back after the eden dean liiiiiiterally feels like cas is his guardian angel and he starts refering to him that way. it makes cas blush soooo much but dean MEANS IT hes like :)) cas is so good to me he's my guardian angel. i never thought i had one but now i do and its cas!! and cas DIES

;~; ;~; ;~; ;~; <3 <3 <3 feelings!!!

[iguinn]

dgm really is so good with character writing because its like... really realistic imo? its been barely over a year in universe and the subtle way characters develop fits very way considering the circumstances. ive seen someone complain that theres no character development but it is there but it leans towards the subtle side because of how little time its actually been in universe and how all characters have been used to the horrible world theyre in. the ones whose character change the most are the ones whose world has changed the most since the beginning and i like that. i like the realism of "if not much changes theres little space to develop" while also changing every slowly and subtly its incredible. u dont get spoonfed anything to do with the story unless its absolutely necessary (aka from the backstories) and assumes that the reader is smart enough to at least understand and try to connect bits and pieces to each other and understand what is happening even if not fully. as much as i joke about not knowing whats going on u actually do have a clear idea little by little of what is happening and how it all connects even if u dont know the exact outcome or what exactly happened. it starts slowly a very monster of the week thing until u start to get to know the Noah and the Order and understand that theres more to it than bad guys and good guys or monsters and heroes. each of the main characters, even the ones that tend to get on everyone's nerves at first, become more interesting and get more depth even characters that we know little about in general are very lovable and u know when Hoshino wants u to dislike a character or dislike but still sympathize. its a good, if at times, complicated, story that shines even more due to its characters. the light novels are also very good even if sometimes the humor doesnt land or u get kinda lost reading the light novel about Allie's backstory if u arent that far ahead in the story which ive seen happen.

but what i like the most about it is how it was described by Hoshino herself as both a story about tragedy and a story about love. but romantic love barely plays a huge part, platonic love does play a big part but the kind of love thats the most important to Allie (our main character) is famillial. and not even blood family but adoptive family. Allie's biggest influences in the world are her parental figures and what happens to them is a huge driving force in her development for better or worse. and its poignant and heartbreaking but also soft and beautiful in its tragedy and sadness. being given love but deprived of genuine love and having true love being withheld from her not through malice but by fear and doubt. it really shows how sometimes ur parents might love u but it still hurts. the exploration of familial love and how the personal problems a parent has can so deeply affect a young child is heartbreaking but those small moments when theres a breakthrough and u can see that genuine parental affection even if its given awkwardly and unsure of how to do it right is beautiful.